“Excellent. Secretaries know everything. Designers? Did you have a design department?”
He watched in delight as she bobbed her sandal and tugged her sweater, unknowingly giving him a better view of the curve of her breasts swelling above the draped shawl neckline.
Then his gaze drifted back to her vulnerable eyes. He was supposed to be immune to eyes that revealed much more than she would like. Lust was easier. He dragged his observations back to the safer territory of luscious curves.
“No,” she answered curtly. “I suggested colors and yarns. Evan located the patterns from his contacts in the industry. They had jacquard equipment, but mostly, our designs came down to colors and materials.”
“And you chose those?” he said in delight. “Like the ones in the café? You have an excellent eye.”
“For expensive yarns and fibers,” she said wryly. “I’m the reason they overextended.”
“Nonsense.” He brushed aside the suggestion. “With the labor costs here, a wealthy market was your only option. Management did not manage cash flow correctly.”
She looked at him with curiosity. “You know mill management?”
Jacques shrugged. “I know money. I know textile markets. And I know history.”
“Saint-Etienne Fabrications is the finest historical reconstruction firm in Europe,” Brigitte said without inflection. “They reproduce historical fabrics and wall coverings for museums and palaces.”
“I am just the whiz kid,” Jacques said deprecatingly. “I find the appropriate historical designs and create the programs to replicate them. A little knowledge goes a long way.”
“Virginia Adams is his mother,” Brigitte added, as if that explained all.
Apparently, it did. Jacques almost squirmed under Amy’s astonished regard. He didn’t want to be known for his damned mother. She had no part in his company. His family had a civilized relationship. His mother traveled the world hawking her art and her knowledge. His father traveled collecting art and knowledge. Jacques had spent his growing up years in boarding schools. It worked out well as long as none of them required any emotional commitment.
“Virginia Adams, the art historian who helped restorations from the White House to Buckingham Palace?” she whispered. “That Virginia Adams? Her knowledge of British and American art and design is famous.”
“Infamous, more like.” It was his turn to mutter.
“Infamous? She’s highly respected,” Amy argued, finally stopping her nervous bouncing and turning to look at him fully.
“It is nothing.” Jacques waved off the subject. “Let us go back to our list.”
“His father, her husband, is an international art collector and historian. The two cannot live in the same country without starting a small war,” Brigitte said matter-of-factly.
“Whatever could they fight over?” Amy was now talking to Brigitte and ignoring him. “I would think they’d have a lot in common.”
“They disagree on the color red,” Brigitte said with a shrug. “One is French, the other British-American, each with their own prejudices.”
“It is a match made in hell,” Jacques finished curtly as the Hummer stopped in front of the café. “And now we have wasted our meeting on old news. Let us try to be more productive over lunch.”
“It’s two in the afternoon,” Amy protested. “I have to pick Josh up at school. I’ll make a list of employees who might help and give you a call later.”
“Nonsense.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Brigitte, you will get out here. You and Pascal can reserve us a table. Luigi will take us to the school. Give him the directions.” He sat back and crossed his arms expectantly.
Amy studied him through narrowed eyes, but he had her number. She had little practice in defying direct orders.
“Reservations are hardly necessary,” she said quietly. “It’s well past the lunch hour. There is no reason for Brigitte to get out.”
Jacques grinned. “There is if she knows what’s good for her.”
And Brigitte did. He hired only bright assistants. She was already out of the obnoxious tank of a car Luigi had insisted on renting.
“Now, where is this school? Josh? Is he your little boy? He will like a ride in this car, no?”
Amy rewarded him with a suspicious glance — obviously she was very bright — gave the directions to the elementary, and returned to nervously slapping her sandal up and down. “Yes, of course, he’s a first grader. Listen, I’ve already had lunch, and the café closes at three. We really should save this for the phone.”
“The café closes? How can that be? Where will we eat?”
“In Asheville, I assume, since you don’t like red meat or iceberg lettuce. That’s about all the steak house down the road serves. The Stardust only serves dinner on weekends, and now that the tourist season is over, we may quit doing that.”
Amy watched as he mulled that over. Despite his nonchalance, Jacques was obviously a man who took control and kept it. It should be interesting to see how he dealt with this minor hitch in his plans. She was beginning to understand that, despite his tailored elegance, he wasn’t the kind of man who would walk away from an obstacle as she’d expected.
It was hard to ignore the sense of anticipation that seemed to crackle in the air when he was around. If she’d let herself think about it at all, she’d know it was because his flamboyant charm covered a deep pool and not shallow waters, and she wanted to see what he did next.
His slacks outlined the brace on his knee, but the man exuded male energy that negated any minor handicap. Amy wore heels so she didn’t feel short next to everyone else, but sitting down, he still towered over her. She wouldn’t call herself fragile, but she’d seen the strength of Jacques’ upper arms when he wielded the crutches. This was not a man she’d want to tangle with physically or intellectually.
His mother was Virginia Adams. Amy couldn’t decide whether to weep or knock her head against a wall. A man with those kind of high-powered connections would not want to run their tiny little country mill. He moved on a scale so far beyond that of her world that she could scarcely imagine it. His smiles were meaningless. He was simply using her to get whatever it was he wanted, and that seemed to be the pattern cards.
Sinking deeper into the leather seat and glaring out the window, Amy decided that when her ship came in, she’d hire a therapist to find out why the only men who interested her were men who wanted to use her.
“You are open for breakfast and lunch, no?” he asked, tapping his fingers against his knee and studying the more immediate problem of food.
“We are open for breakfast and lunch, yes,” she agreed, trying to be polite, as one would to a guest, but fearing the sarcasm bled through. Or her fear. “But the lunch menu is hamburgers and not sun-dried-tomato paninis. This is a blue-collar town where people work hard and eat large. French fries are as close to European dining as you’ll get.”
She felt him turn that sizzling blue-black gaze on her and wished the driver would turn up the air-conditioning before she roasted beneath the blaze of Jacques’s regard.
“You can prepare tomato paninis?” he inquired.
Assertive, she told herself. Be assertive. “It requires equipment the restaurant does not own.” Well, that wasn’t exactly assertive, but it was better than admitting that she could prepare them, yes.
“Ah, if that is all….” He snapped open his cell phone, pushed a few numbers, and as the Hummer skirted the line of parents waiting to pick up their children at the elementary school, he began a rapid spate of French to his assistant.
Amy was ready to crawl under the front seat as people stared at the flat-topped monstrosity bypassing the line.
While Jacques talked, Amy leaned forward to talk to the driver. “You’ll block the school buses,” she explained quietly. “Pull around back where the teachers park. I can go in and find Josh.”
Instead, the driver halted the Hummer directly in front of the school, next to the
line of buses and cars, climbed out, and held open the door for her.
Amy thought she would shrivel up and die of embarrassment as she took his hand and climbed down. As Evan’s wife, she’d been one of the wealthiest women in town, but she had never, ever flaunted the fact. She’d grown up here. These people had known her as a snot-nosed kid. Pretension would only get her snubbed at church on Sunday.
Chin high, she marched up the walk as if she arrived in a chauffeured Hummer every day. One day out of a lifetime was no big deal.
Josh ran out to meet her, and with relief Amy kneeled down to hug his sturdy little body. She didn’t mind if he got chocolate stains on her silk shell — it was washable, and she reveled in the nondemanding love and acceptance of his hug. She blew a raspberry on the back of his neck just for the reassuring familiarity of his giggle.
Holding his hand, she hurried back to the drive, praying a dozen buses weren’t blowing their horns in fury.
The Hummer wasn’t there.
She almost had a panic attack until she realized Luigi had merely circled the drive and was pulling back around again. She was used to being abandoned. She wasn’t used to intelligent drivers.
Luigi parked, and Amy hurriedly opened the latch before he could get out and perform the whole door-opening ceremony again. Josh was wide-eyed and openmouthed as she lifted him into the back and scrambled up after him. She buckled him into the middle seat and slammed the door after her, under Luigi’s disapproving gaze.
Off the cell phone now, Jacques held out his hand. “Good to meet you, Master Josh. Did you have an entertaining day at school?”
So eager for male attention that he would have spilled his guts to any hobo wandering through town, Josh bounced excitedly and began reciting his day in detail, punctuated with a barrage of questions about the masculine vehicle they were riding in.
Amy gave up any hope of fighting her competition when — instead of impatiently brushing off Josh’s questions — Jacques answered them all in a manner a small boy could comprehend. She wondered if he knew pain shadowed his eyes when he looked at Josh. It could be his knee, of course, but somehow, she didn’t think so.
If she didn’t drive the man out of town soon, she could learn to adore him just for taking time to listen to her children. Obviously, Josh wasn’t the only one starved for male attention.
Seven
Jacques thought he deserved an Academy Award by the time Luigi pulled up in front of the café. He’d done a superior job of keeping up an amusing conversation with the towheaded charmer while a knifing pain of regret minced his gut into pâté. He’d thought he’d gone beyond grief years ago, but the interaction with the child was too close and personal without a shield of activity and people to protect him.
He could have had a son of his own by now. He hoped any son of his would have been as bright and eager as this child, with his mother’s shy smile and inquisitive mind. Danielle had been a mama’s girl, loving frilly dresses and shiny shoes, and he’d worshipped her, but he’d never had a son to wrestle about the floor and romp in the grass with. And now he was too set in his ways — and too busy — for wrestling and romping.
An auto accident on a snow-laden highway had stolen that dream ten years ago, and it was too late to regret his decision not to pursue another. He couldn’t let a child’s smile and a woman’s winsome nature make him question his choices or distract him from his goals — not for more than a day or two, anyway.
You can’t lose what you don’t have, he reminded himself. He’d lost quite enough for one lifetime and doubted he’d survive losing more. He’d learned to endure physical pain as an athlete. He’d just have to learn to endure a little emotional discomfort for as long as it took to get those designs.
Under the interested stares of an audience of locals, Jacques swung his crutches into the café. He glanced at his Rolex. It was two-thirty on a Monday afternoon. Shouldn’t the place be nearly empty if it closed at three?
“Hey, Hoss, what are you doing here?” Amy asked, confirming Jacques’s suspicion that the number of customers at this hour was unusual.
While Amy helped Josh onto a counter stool, Jacques took a seat at the booth occupied by Pascal and Brigitte. Both were sipping espressos and pushing french fries around their plates with distaste.
“You found a grill for the panini?” he asked Brigitte.
“I will have to order it,” Brigitte said. “I could not locate a local shop.”
“Bed, Bath and Beyond in Asheville,” Amy suggested, returning to their table. “But if you’re staying in Asheville, you don’t need a grill. I’m sure the resort can fix paninis if you ask.”
Jacques gestured for her to sit across from him, next to Brigitte. She hesitated, but he would not speak until she finally surrendered and joined them. It was obvious Amy did not quite grasp the intensity of his determination once he’d made up his mind, but she would.
“I am staying here in Northfork,” he enunciated carefully, looking straight at her. “I need to spend more time at the mill and speak with these people whose names you will give me.”
He smiled hopefully to get his point across, while erasing her concerns. An interesting blush stained her cheek, and she tightened her lips and looked away rather than flirt with him. It was a challenge wooing a woman who didn’t wish to be won.
Did he wish to woo her? He would be here only briefly, but he had a feeling they could warm the cockles of each other’s hearts very nicely, and still part friends.
She had recently come out of a broken marriage. Perhaps temporary was exactly what she needed.
“Hey, Amy, you gonna introduce us to your friends?” The man she’d called Hoss earlier propped a possessive hand on the back of the booth behind her. Tall, forty-something, muscular and stocky, with gray in his close-clipped beard, the stranger eyed Jacques as if he were not human.
Not wishing to drag out the crutches to stand, Jacques merely extended his hand. “Jacques Saint-Etienne. My assistant, Brigitte. My adviser, Pascal. How do you do?”
Hoss gripped his hand and squeezed. Jacques squeezed harder.
He didn’t have the pleasure of seeing the other man wince. Interestingly, Amy tugged Hoss’s work shirt to force him to release his grip in an apparent attempt to protect her guest. Jacques grinned at the idea of his needing a woman’s protection.
“Cut it out, Hoss. Jacques is here about the mill. Hoss owns the white-water rafting company on the river.”
“Jack, is it?” Hoss asked. “I thought you was buying the mill, Amy.”
“You know perfectly well that the town is trying to buy the mill, so quit your country bumpkin act. Everyone profits if the plant is returned to production, no matter who buys it. Now play nice,” she scolded mildly.
She wanted the town to acquire the mill. That explained a great deal. Jacques suffered a twinge of guilt at her words. He wasn’t in the business of operating mills and had no intention of putting the outdated plant into production. The logistics were far more than his small company could manage. He could not see how it mattered to a woman like Amy, who had family all around her and no need of a filthy mill.
“Hey, Hoss, you got the turkey shoot lined up yet?” a blue-jeaned farmer-type called from the counter.
Hoss turned toward the speaker. “Ain’t got enough entries yet to make it worth my time, Jimbo.”
“Now that Jo isn’t the prize, you’re not offering anything worth ours,” George Bob, the man introduced as the local insurance agent, complained.
The young waitress arrived with glasses of water — with lemon slices, Jacques noticed with approval. “Can I bring you anything?”
“Heat up some of the soup I have in the freezer,” Amy told her before Jacques could say a word. “There are some seven-grain rolls left in the bread drawer, and chicken salad in the blue container on the second shelf. I’ll be there in a minute to help, and I’ll clean up so you can leave on time.”
The waitress looked relieved and rus
hed away. With increased interest at this bossy side of the lady, Jacques raised a questioning eyebrow.
Amy pushed up from the booth and shrugged. “It’s that, or french fries. At least the minestrone is vegetarian. Back in a minute.”
Across from him, Brigitte snickered into her espresso.
“When in Rome,” Pascal quoted back at him, “you take orders from Romans.”
Not only had the woman chosen his meal, she’d walked off and left him! Obstinate. And bossy. Intriguing. Jacques surreptitiously watched Amy behind the counter. There was something ultimately sexy about a woman preparing a nurturing meal.
“Laugh, if you will,” he said gallantly, “but see, she is taking care of the boy, and her hired help, and us, all at once.” He nodded toward the counter where Amy was kissing her son’s head and handing him a plate of peeled fruit, while helping the young waitress prepare a plate for their late customers. “She is kind even to strangers who are her adversaries.”
He’d not intended to get involved when he’d come here. He had just been looking for new mountains to climb. It looked as if he’d found more challenge than he’d anticipated.
“Hey, Ames, reckon Flint would want to join the turkey shoot if he’s in this weekend?” Hoss had returned to the counter when Amy did, as if he were standing guard over her.
Jacques narrowed his eyes and considered the beefy older man following her around. Surely this was not his competition?
“Ever shot a turkey?” Pascal murmured, following his thoughts.
“There are some turkeys I would not mind shooting,” Jacques replied noncommittally, sipping his water.
“Flint might if the boys are allowed to enter,” Amy replied while arranging the chicken salad on a bed of lettuce. “You’d snare him even faster if you let Jo shoot.”
Male laughter erupted throughout the café. A lifetime of competition had enhanced Jacques’ ability to size up the opposition. He observed the byplay with interest.
Sweet Home Carolina Page 6